Maxfield Parrish, and Emily—for Emily Brontë—age five.
He’d shown her pictures, the ones from his wallet, and told her funny little stories about them.
To personalize himself; she understood that. And it had, but it also forced her to realize there were no funny little stories about her as a child.
“Do they worry about you? Being in law enforcement?”
“Max and Em? They’re too young to worry. They know I chase bad guys, and that’s about as far as it goes right now. Maddie?” He sat with his coffee. “Yeah, some. It’s part of the package. And it can be tough on her, the long hours, the time away from home.”
“You said she was a court reporter.”
“Yeah, until Max came along. Best day of my life, that day in court. Even though I could barely remember my own name with her sitting there. Most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. I don’t know how I got lucky enough to talk her into going out with me, much less marrying me.”
“You’re a very solid man,” Elizabeth began. “Physically attractive. You’re kind and have a broad worldview, varied interests. And the fact that you’re in a position of authority, carry a weapon, can be attractive to a woman on a visceral level.”
His eyes laughed at her over his coffee. “You’re like nobody else, Liz.”
“I wish I were.”
“Don’t. You’re a stand-up girl, scary smart, brave, compassionate—and you have varied interests as well. I can’t keep up with the variety. Science, law enforcement, health and nutrition, music, books, now cooking. Who knows what’s next?”
“Will you teach me to handle a gun?”
He lowered his coffee. “Where did that come from?”
“It could be one of my varied interests.”
“Liz.”
“I’m having nightmares.”
“Oh, honey.” He laid a hand over hers. “Talk to me.”
“I dream about that night. I know it’s a normal reaction, an expected one.”
“That doesn’t make it easier.”
“It doesn’t.” She stared down at the cookbook, wondered if her world would ever be as simple as ingredients and measurements again.
“And I dream about going in, to do the lineup. Only he sees me, Korotkii. I know he sees me, because he smiles. And he reaches behind his back, like he did that night. And everything slows down when he takes out the gun. Nobody reacts. He shoots me through the glass.”
“He didn’t see you, Liz.”
“I know. That’s rational and logical. But this is about fear and emotion—subconscious fears and emotions. I try not to dwell on it, try to keep busy and occupied.”
“Why don’t I contact your mother?”
“Why?”
The genuine puzzlement had him biting back an oath. “You know we have a psychologist available for you. You said you didn’t want to talk to one before, but—”
“I still don’t. What’s the point? I understand what’s happening, and why. I know it’s a process my mind has to go through. But he kills me, you see. Either at the house because in the dreams he finds me, or at the lineup because he sees right through the glass. I’m afraid he’ll find me, he’ll see me, he’ll kill me. And I feel helpless. I have no power, no weapon. I can’t defend myself. I want to be able to defend myself. I don’t want to be helpless.”
“And you think learning to shoot will help you feel more in control, less vulnerable?”
“I think it’s one answer.”
“Then I’ll teach you.” He took out his weapon, pulled out the magazine, and set it aside. “This is a Glock 19. It’s standard-issue. It holds fifteen rounds in this magazine.”
Elizabeth took it when he offered. “It’s polymer. I looked it up.”
“Of course you did.”
“It’s not as heavy as I thought it would be. But it’s not loaded, so that accounts for some of the weight.”
“We’ll keep it unloaded for now. Let’s talk about safety.”
She looked up, into his eyes. “All right.”
After some basics, he had her stand, showed her how to sight, how to grip. And Terry walked in.
“Jesus Christ, John.”
“It’s not loaded,” Elizabeth said quickly.
“I repeat, Jesus Christ.”
“Give us a minute, Liz.”
“Oh. All right.” More reluctant than she’d imagined, she gave the gun back to John. “I’ll be in my room.”
“What the hell are you thinking?” Terry demanded the minute Elizabeth left the room.
“She wants to learn how to handle a gun.”
“Well, I want George Clooney naked in my bed, but I haven’t attempted kidnapping. Yet.”
“She’s having nightmares, Terry.”
“Crap.” Terry wrenched open the refrigerator, got out a Coke. “I’m sorry, John, this all seriously sucks for that kid. But letting her handle your service weapon isn’t an answer.”
“She thinks it is. She doesn’t want to feel defenseless. Who can blame her? We can tell her all day long she’s safe, we’ll protect her, but she’s still powerless. It’s not just about what we tell her, but what she feels.”
“I know that, John, I know. I understand she’s scared, and she’s got to be bored out of her mind. We can’t change that, not really.”
“Her life’s never going to be the same, Terry, and we can’t forget that, either. We can’t forget she’s not just the witness, she’s a teenage girl. If learning proper gun safety and operation helps her, then I’m going to see she gets taught. Because the least she deserves is a decent night’s sleep.”
“Crap,” Terry repeated. “Okay, I get it. I do. But …”
“But?”
“I’m thinking.”
“Good, keep doing that. I’m going to try out the line that worked on you on the boss. I want to get clearance to take her into the range.”
“Rub a lamp while you’re at it. That may help.”
John just smiled and, taking out his phone, walked into the next room.
Terry huffed out a breath. After a moment’s consideration, she got out a second Coke, then walked upstairs to Elizabeth’s bedroom. She knocked.
“Come in.”
“Playing with guns always makes me thirsty.” Terry walked over to the bed where Elizabeth sat, handed her the Coke.
“I hope you’re not angry with John. It was my fault.”
“I’m not mad.” Terry sat beside her. “It caught me off guard, that’s all. John told me you’re having nightmares. You’re scared. I can tell you not to be, but the truth is, in your place I’d be scared, too.”
“I couldn’t do anything. In the nightmares, I can’t do anything, either, so he kills me, too. I want to learn how to take care of myself. You won’t always be there. You and John or Bill and Lynda. Or whoever they send. One day, you won’t be there, and I have to know I can take care of myself. My mother won’t go.”
“You don’t know—”
“I do know.” She said it calmly, without emotion, surprised she felt calm and emotionless. “When it comes time for you to relocate me, give me a new identity, she won’t go with me. Her life’s here, her career. I’ll be seventeen soon. I can file for emancipation if I need to. I would get it. When I turn eighteen, I’ll have some money from my trust fund. And more when I’m twenty-one. I can study, and I can work. I can cook a little now. But I can’t defend myself if something happens.”
“You’re smart enough to have done some research on the program. We haven’t lost a witness who’s
